Pothole in the Sidewalk
by seghen
Summary: Rachel Dawes and Jonathan Crane...two people could not be more different...


Rachel Dawes walked briskly down the hallway, her half-inch heels clicking with each step. She looked shockingly elegant with her long auburn hair pulled back into a neat bun, her skin bearing no makeup. Her navy skirt was a flattering, yet conservative cut that dipped below her knees.

Jonathan Crane, also dressed smartly, hastened his pace in attempt to catch up with his hasty counterpart. "Ms. Dawes!" As expected his exclamation was ignored as she sharply turned a corner, looking behind her before practically storming out the door. He rolled his eyes, adjusting his spectacles quickly before following her.

"Sore loser, are we?" he mocked, meeting her stride. She glared at him though said nothing, not taking the bait. "Mrs. Evanders is, unfortunately, mentally incapacitated. I am not attempting to exploit her illness, Ms. Dawes. I only find it fit that she be capable of getting the treatment that a woman in her state requires..." she cut him off, whirling around and facing him.

"It is quite convenient that after Amelia Evanders is indicted on drug trafficking and then you, Mister Crane, come swooping down to her 'rescue'." He glanced at her with impatience before butting in.

"Her mother's cousin is also under psychiatric care. It could be hereditary," he suggested, but the instant he spoke he regretted it. She looked even angrier.

"Oh, a disease that leaps over relations and straight onto Mrs. Evanders? Don't insult my intelligence," she snapped, turning a street corner and stepping straight into a pothole. "Shit!" she exclaimed, one heel stuck in the crater and the other attempting to steady herself. She fell forward and into the street, nearly flattening herself on a busy road when she felt one of Crane's arms wrap around her waist, the other clasping onto her shoulder.

He righted Rachel's position, glancing down at her expensive shoes. He was alarmed to find that her ankle was swollen irregularly. "Quite the ballerina, are we, Dawes?" he abandoned the pretense of formality as he led her to the nearest bench. She hobbled beside him, pouting sullenly and completely unaware of the fact that her hand was closed in his. Her spare hand flew to her hair, which was in complete disarray as she attempted to flatten it in vain.

"You look fine," he informed her without even glancing in her direction. In astonishment, she dropped her hand to her side limply. "Though you could do without the limp." She scowled.

"Well if you hadn't been harassing me, this wouldn't have happened," she retorted tartly, pursing her lips in dignity before wrenching her arm away from him. "I think that I'll limp on home, then," she said snidely, walking or stumbling away. After a few steps she kicked her shoes off, wincing as she leaned down to pick them up.

"That really isn't sanitary, Dawes. You'll get some type of fungus," he informed her, once again catching up with her, though this time without any difficulty. "And I hardly call informing you harassment. I felt the need to justify myself." She looked around at him in alarm.

"To me?" she asked unnecessarily. He seemed to realize that the comment required no response, so he continued as though she had not spoken.

"That'll get ugly if you don't put some ice on it."

She grunted in response, really not an intelligible response. "Can you stop following me? I suddenly have an overwhelming urge to get a giant fly swatter," she retorted, unconsciously wrapping her arm around his neck as she fumbled forward. He tensed a bit before sinking into her grasp and helping her along.

"You're lucky that I'm such a Good Samaritan to help the damsel in distress," he said, putting his arm to her shoulder in attempt to keep her upright.

She sneered, though on her pretty face the expression still looked rather attractive. "So says the man that plows said damsel into a hole in the sidewalk," she snapped back with venom as her fingers pressed into his shoulder not unpleasantly. He straightened his back, ignoring the feeling that her hands had on him.

"That was a complete accident. You were the one who chose to walk straight into the pothole," he reasoned, but she just rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, I don't deny that, but if you weren't chasing me I would have been walking where I was watching...I mean..." she waved her hand dismissively, in no mood to revise her sentence.

"Tongue tied, are we?" She gave out the semblance of a laugh before adjusting her position.

"Tired," she informed him, glancing behind her. "I'll hail a taxi, you can continue flouting responsibility and spitting in the face of the judicial system by claiming that every criminal in your care is suffering from insanity." He glanced at her with his glistening blue eyes beneath his wide-rimmed glasses.

"I'll do that, Ms. Dawes. Hope that it's not sprained," he said in reference to her ankle. She nodded curtly before easing her grip on him and steadying herself. "See you in court," he said sweetly, as though it were an invitation.

"Regrettably," she called over her shoulder, leaning ninety percent of her weight on her uninjured leg before raising her arm into the air and calling out for a cab.

The taxi drivers were, if anything, more unfriendly in Gotham than anywhere else, so it took her a grand total of four minutes to get one of the rude drivers to stop for her. "Thank you," she said with some graciousness, but mostly exasperation.

"Thanks, Rache," an unpleasantly familiar voice said from behind her, side-stepping right into the taxi and opening the door in a gentlemanly manner. "I need a ride back to Arkham, we could share." She scowled and folded her arms disagreeably.

"I'd rather work to defend Amelia Evanders," she snapped in reply, shoes in her arms. He shrugged before entering the cab and closing the door.

Before the taxi barreled away, she heard him say distinctly, "Suit yourself."

She ground her bare and uninjured heel into the pavement and groaned angrily. "Bastard!" she exclaimed, shooting her arm into the air once more in the attempt to tempt another ride to stop for her.

Jonathan looked out the grimy windows of his cab, smiling inwardly, though his brow was furrowed. She really did despise him, and he would like to say that the feeling was mutual. She was too formidable an enemy to not merit respect from him, despite her boss's orders; she still refused to take all of his insanity pleas with a grain of salt. Justice was her niche, where she was more able and comfortable than anywhere else. She was good, no, brilliant, at what she did and he respected her initiative. It was a pity that she was becoming a liability.

He frowned slightly as she shrunk in the distance. He would have to take care of her, if she continued to interfere with his work.

**hope u like! first batman fic...ever. dabbling in non-harry potter, though my main stories'll still b HP oriented. should i continue or is this better as a oneshot**


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